Godeye
by Be26
Summary: Volume Two of the Heroes saga. Begins shortly after the events of How To Stop An Exploding Man. Rated M for safety.
1. Disclaimer

A short disclaimer before we get into the meat of the action.

This piece of work is rated R/M/18 thanks mostly to curses (I think it was John Travolta in Be Cool that said you get one "fuck" before you become an R-rated movie, and that's my one used up there). Characters will swear and curse on occasion, perform violent acts and voice sentiments that would probably be offensive to some (for example, the stray thought of a character in the first chapter). Art imitates life, and while it's a stretch to call this "art", it's a decent approximation; hence, be prepared to be offended at times.

Godeye takes place after the events of How To Stop An Exploding Man, and everything up to that point is considered canon. While it may sound jerkish and arrogant, nothing else that has been mentioned will be used unless I want to use it and feel it fits with the story I'm telling. For example, the reports that Sylar will be returning in some capacity may or may not be true in this case. The man Molly called "worse than the bogeyman" may or may not appear. Peter and Nathan may or may not survive, and so on so forth. 

If you are offended by anything contained within, please take it up with me directly rather than going straight to the administrators. I can do without getting banned before I realise what's happened.

All foreign languages contained within are brought into life thanks to the marvel that is Babelfish. I've done my best to be accurate, but the result will probably hurt the ears of native speakers. Hey ho.

If anybody feels like being a beta, let me know. Equally, if anybody WANTS a Heroes beta, I'm happy to oblige.

And now that I've built hype my writing can't hope to live up to, that is all. Read on and hopefully enjoy.


	2. Und So Weite

**Volume Two: Godeye  
Chapter One: Und So Weite**

---

"Sylar's identity – Gabriel Gray, a 31-year-old watchmaker - was determined from blood left at the Kirby Plaza scene. Gray's body was never discovered and so it must be assumed that he is still at large. Gray must be considered armed and dangerous at all times, and officers have been ordered to shoot on sight."

The report bore an FBI letterhead and went on, but Mohinder Suresh's interest in it was clearly finished as he tossed it onto the desk surface. After the events of Kirby Plaza, the FBI had gone to work quickly, disseminating a number of contradictory news leaks about the explosion in the sky – the one currently favoured by most was that it had been caused by the controlled detonation of an obsolete space satellite – but had failed to locate any of the three significant figures. Despite his serious wound, Sylar had crawled into a manhole when everyone's attention had been distracted and had simply vanished, whereas neither of the Petrelli brothers had been sighted since. Behind the desk, Noah Bennet smiled thinly.

"We can at least provide one answer to the questions you are undoubtedly going to ask, Mr. Suresh, or at least a partial answer. Sylar, wherever he is, is invisible."

The unpleasant news had surfaced two days after the Kirby Plaza incident when Claude's body was discovered with his brain missing; as a result of Claude's self-inflicted exile from the human race, the body had already begun to decompose when it was stumbled open by a pair of NYPD officers. The implications took a moment for him to process, but when they did Mohinder reacted in the same way as everyone had – the revelation threw yet another spanner in the already complicated works.

"And of the Petrellis?"

Noah shook his head. "We've had no more luck than anyone else. Molly as well," he added, seeing Mohinder about to ask. "She keeps getting blank results every time she's tried. Or so she says, at least."

"You think she's lying?" prompted Mohinder, his eyebrows raised in scepticism. Noah studied his fingernails for a moment.

"I'm not sure she's trying too hard. And I am fairly sure she's enjoying the company of her new family too much to jeopardise it."

"This is Sylar. If he's still on the loose, don't you think she'd want him found rather than coming for her? If Sylar is strong enough to stay alive after being skewered and left for dead, then there's just about nothing the Hawkins family can do to stop him."

"We can only assume that Sylar has gone to ground, Mr. Suresh," pressed Noah. "Anything else would just cause undue panic."

"And if you're wrong?" retaliated the scientist, firing up. "If you're wrong, if Sylar is still on the loose, then these assumptions will just mean more deaths! If he takes Molly's power-"

"Mr. Suresh, do you think I don't know this?" broke in Noah. "Everything I've done ever since this all began was all to protect my daughter, and if Sylar suddenly becomes able to find anyone he wishes, all of that is for naught! There will be people stationed at the Hawkins house, whether they agree or not, and if Sylar appears they can at least fend him off! Do not make the mistake of thinking you are the only one with a personal interest here!"

Mohinder had the grace to look abashed, but he was a little concerned as well; Noah's outburst was – at least from what he'd seen – out of character for the man. "I believed you were underestimating Sylar's threat, for which I apologise, but I have to know how you're planning to stop him getting what he wants."

"Simple. Invisibility can be countered easily enough, and everybody charged with Molly's defense will be given thermal goggles to that end. And even if he avoids being seen, there's not a lot he can do if HE can't find what he's looking for."

"Do you always speak in riddles?"

Noah smiled, diffusing the growing tension in the room. "Old habit. It was something I had to develop with the Company – call it an occupational hazard." Mohinder opened his mouth to interject, but thought better of it and remained silent. "What I mean is that even if Sylar gets to the house, there's someone who can make him see things that aren't there and not see things that are there."

"But if Sylar can break through this barrier?"

Noah shook his head indulgingly. "That's not possible. Parkman couldn't when he went up against Candace, and he's telepathic; it's just not possible."

Mohinder exhaled. None of this put him at ease at all, but he accepted that there was little else that could be done with the disappearance of Peter Petrelli. "Has there been any word about the…" He paused, unsure how to phrase it. "…changes in the Company?"

"In a word, yes. The Company's prime directive remains the same, just under a new head."

There was a pause, before Noah filled in the blank.

"Me."

---

"Sylar's identity – Gabriel Gray, a 31-year-old watchmaker - was determined from blood left at the Kirby Plaza scene. Gray's body was never discovered and so it must be assumed that he is still at large. Gray must be considered armed and dangerous at all times, and officers have been ordered to shoot on sight."

Audrey Hanson looked at her bedridden comrade. "What do you think?"

"It reads just like every report from the Feds I ever got," smiled Matt Parkman. "The bare facts and nothing more. Admit it, we're like pond-scum to you."

Audrey tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. While he'd never had much in the way of luck, the bullets had missed Matt's vital organs completely; he'd lost a lot of blood thanks to being incapacitated while Peter and Sylar fought, but it was nothing he couldn't recover from. Janice had visited often, but of late her energies had been put more towards preparing for the baby's arrival – Matt's reminder that she was only ten weeks pregnant did nothing to calm her. Besides her and the FBI agent, Matt had received a surprise visit from Audrey's superior, the red-headed agent he'd first met at the Walker household; in a gesture completely at odds with her demeanour, she offered Matt a position with the FBI when he recovered. It came as a welcome piece of good news as technically, Matt's suspension was still active and he'd learnt first-hand that private security was a dangerous racket to be involved in (albeit only thanks to the incredible strength of Niki Sanders).

"I heard you'd been asked to join us when you recovered," said Audrey, unwittingly stumbling upon Matt's thoughts. He fidgeted in his bed a little uncomfortably, unsure where to look. "So…"

Sensing the unsaid question, Matt closed his eyes. It wasn't a deliberate attempt to pry into Audrey's thoughts, but one floated up unbidden anyway. "He'll say yes…he wants to move up."

"First things first," he said, eyes still closed. "Do you really believe I can read minds?"

"How can I not? After everything with Ted, with Peter Petrelli, with Sylar…I believe."

"Aside from you and my wife, does anybody else know what I can do?"

"That I kept off all the reports. I thought it would be best if we kept this quiet, for now at least."

Matt leaned back against the pillows, with a relieved sigh. "Good girl."

"It will get out, Matt. What happens when you start pulling thoughts out of a suspect's head and we have to make a case? What judge will buy a story of telepathy? You know how hard it is to get admissible evidence, and nobody will accept this as admissible in a thousand years."

"Then we improvise," returned Matt, unflustered. "I have no idea how strong I can make it, but if we ask a suspect a question about something, like a detail, he'll automatically think about it if he knows anything. Don't you see?"

Audrey shook her head. "Honestly, no."

"Come on, think about it. Sure, we can't go into a court and say "I heard the suspect thinking about where he stashed the money", but I can at least provide leads and hard evidence. Nobody can lie while I'm around."

---

"Sylar's identity – Gabriel Gray, a 31-year-old watchmaker - was determined from blood left at the Kirby Plaza scene. Gray's body was never discovered and so it must be assumed that he is still at large. Gray must be considered armed and dangerous at all times, and officers have been ordered to shoot on sight."

For the second time in ten minutes, the news anchor read from the official report in front of him. As the clock on-screen ticked over to read 8:00, Leslie Jones snatched up his keys from the counter and stabbed at the TV's power button. He'd heard about the explosion and the other strange events that had been happening recently already, but it held little interest for him; so an American satellite had been blown up in outer space. So what? He was going to sleep soundly tonight regardless, but to do that, he had to get through another hated day of school, another day of taunts and jibes and classes that were so dull Leslie just felt like he lost knowledge from being there. If it were any other time, he'd have just skipped it entirely, but the school had reported all of his "unauthorised absences" to his parents and they had not been pleased. His mom had agreed to let him leave at the normal time – since both parents worked, they were usually both out of the house before Leslie left or even got up on some days - but with the warning that if he skipped another day, he'd lose all his privileges. He would effectively be grounded – a humiliating punishment for someone almost sixteen, but it was a threat that nonetheless did the trick. If anybody found out he'd been grounded, his reputation would be in the toilet.

Leslie snorted with laughter. Who said high school got easier as you got older? All it meant was that everyone became more vicious. Slinging his full bookbag over his shoulder and shutting the front door hard, Leslie stepped onto the pavement and…fell straight on his ass, slipping on a patch of ice - such was life in the winters of Ontario. Today was an unpleasant day; it was cold, but not cold enough to snow, and the sun kept peeking through the clouds as though the weather couldn't make up it's mind about which way to turn. Add a French assignment he'd only half-completed and a Biology test he hadn't had time to study for, and this checked all the boxes on the "bad day" list.

"Leslie! Wait up!"

The young man smiled as he turned around. There were always perks, and Mary Hartley was one of them; a _bona fide_ Little Miss Sunshine, to find Mary without a smile was a rare occurrence indeed. She was infectious, that was the only way to put it.

"Watch your step, there's ice all around," warned Leslie, just in time for Mary to slip just as Leslie had before. Looking up from the ground, Mary pouted.

"So I see. Did you study for the Bio test today?" she asked as Leslie helped her up.

"Are you joking? I'm still trying to drop the class, but Spender won't let me." The Biology teacher Frank Spender was a classic case of old-school teaching mentalities coming into conflict with the newer style of education; he was happy to chew out anybody who infringed on his class rules (among others, he banned chewing gum, ink erasers and any electronic equipment that wasn't a calculator), and yet clashed with senior staff over his own conduct, including his smoking. He'd already cut down on the amount of cigarettes he smoked in class at their behest, but refused to give up completely for no other reason than sheer bone-headedness. Leslie had realised he didn't enjoy biology one bit about a month into the previous school year, but Spender kept him on because of his good test scores; not studying was Leslie's newest gambit in their ongoing battle.

"That sucks. Why didn't you just ask to drop it at the end of last year?"

"I wanted to, but my dad said no. You know how some people push their kids into being politicians or scientists?"

"Mm-hm," nodded Mary, well aware; her own father had been dropping hints that Brown University would be the perfect place for her to attend after she graduated mostly because it was his own alma mater.

"My dad wants me to go into genetics like him."

"What did you say?"

Leslie considered it for a moment. "Does laughter count as a word?" He smiled gently, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. "No, I just don't see the interest in it, to be honest."

"I think Jason's doing something like that," chirped Mary, oblivious to the look of disgust that flitted across Leslie's face. Jason Ray was the bane of Leslie's life – he was Mary's boyfriend of two years, and they were childhood sweethearts, even going back to when they were babies and their mothers used the same day-care centre. It was a sweet story, and it had the unfortunate complication of Jason being a genuinely nice guy, few people had bad things to say of him at all. Still, in this case Leslie was happy to be selfish; he wanted Mary for himself, period. As he stepped off the pavement to cross the road, something Mary said caught his attention for a moment. It took a couple of seconds for him to realise what he was doing; it took a couple more for him to realise the blaring noise was a truck's horn.

"Aw f-" was all Leslie had time to say before the truck crashed into him.

---

"Sylar's identity – Gabriel Gray, a 31-year-old watchmaker - was determined from blood left at the Kirby Plaza scene. Gray's body was never discovered and so it must be assumed that he is still at large. Gray must be considered armed and dangerous at all times, and officers have been ordered to shoot on sight."

Doing his best to ignore the radio in the background, the man sitting in the beaten-up office looked nervous, almost the very definition of the word – his brow gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat and he wrung his hands over and over. He sat on the edge of the battered chair and stared with a hopeful look into the eyes of the man sitting across from him.

"Mr. Samuels, you've missed this fortnight's payment," said Eric Donahue self-importantly, steepling his fingers in an irritating manner. "You know as well as anyone that Mr. Costa does not appreciate late payments…I've done my best to convince him that you aren't a credit risk, but I fear he's growing impatient."

"N-no, no," stuttered Samuels hastily. "I can make the money, I just need a little more time."

"Patience I have, Mr. Samuels," smiled the loan shark. "But I have to report to Mr. Costa in a week's time and if I don't have the money, then I have to explain why. And if I have to explain why, then I have to mention your name. And I'm as sure as you are that you wouldn't want that to happen."

"God no, please, I just need some more time!"

Eric leant back in his chair. "As I said, I have to report to Mr. Costa in a week. You have three days to get me the twenty-five hundred you owe him, and I'm afraid that's the best I can do. Goodbye, Mr. Samuels."

Samuels scrambled to his feet, seemingly grateful for his added time. "Thank you, Mr. Donahue, I'll be back her on Wednesday." He offered the loan shark his hand, but Eric simply ignored it and he left.

_And you'd expect a Jew to be good with his money…_

The cell-phone on his desk buzzed into life, but Eric waited for four rings before deigning to pick it up. "Donahue."

"Mr. Donahue, good to finally catch you at the office," came the silky voice through the receiver, prompting Eric to sit straight up in the chair.

"Oh, Mr. Costa. My apologies, I didn't realise you'd be-"

"-be calling you? Eric, Eric, why would you realise something like that?" replied the mobster. Even though he didn't mean it, his reputation preceded him and gave his words a horrible undertone of menace. "I simply needed to talk to you."

"Er, well…yes, sir. Erm, I believe I'm supposed to bring you the money next week."

"This has nothing to do with your specific line of work, Mr. Donahue, this is to do with the entire operation. You know that we've had some run-ins with the Fitzgeralds of late, and I believe the Russian Mafiya are interested in expansion."

"The Mafiya?" exclaimed Eric, not unreasonably shocked. The Mafiya had only ever had a small presence in New York, and there were few signs that they were interested in upsetting the delicate balance everything had settled into. The underworld had, effectively, become a zero-sum equation, where no party could gain without another party losing out as a result; like a colossal game of Risk, the Mafiya were only able to make headway if someone else lost out. Mr. Costa obviously thought they were looking at him.

"Yes, the Mafiya. We need to foster good relations with them, but I believe they are nonetheless planning some form of assault. You need to be on your guard, and as from tomorrow, you will be accompanied by a pair of bodyguards." Eric was under no illusions of his position in the Costa crime organisation, and he couldn't help but be surprised that he warranted protection.

"Well, thank you, sir. Shall we still go ahead with the meeting next week?"

"Of course. To postpone something like that would make us seem weak, afraid. And that is not something I intend to do." The line abruptly went dead, and Eric dropped the phone onto the desk. As he took a comforting gulp from his coffee, his next appointment knocked on the door.

"Ah, Mr. Aaronson. Come in, have a seat."

---

"Nathan's dead. Peter's dead. Linderman…"

Angela Petrelli turned from the French windows, her eyes red from tears.

"We worked for so long, and so many people died…"

"And yet," broke in a voice from the shadows. "there may still be a way." Angela looked up bitterly.

"Another way. There's always another way. How many more people have to die?"

"You understood these risks, Angela. These deaths were merely the product of unseen factors."

Wiping away a tear from her eye, Angela sat down. "So what now?"

Sounding almost amused, the man in the shadows spoke up. "I don't know, Angela. You're the brains of the operation, remember?"

There was no reply. Sighing in a long-suffering way, the man carried on. "Kaito's son?"

"How could Hiro have the same effect? Nathan was our great chance to…to bring everything to fruition, but there is no-one we can turn to now. Nobody else has his cachet."

"As I already said, there may still be a way. Think about our world."

---

With the warning about the Russians still fresh in his mind, Eric carried the pistol he'd been given before along with him. Even with his dangerous line of work, he'd never felt very threatened in the New York, but the mention of the Mafiya had spooked him; a rare occurrence with all the things he'd seen in the past. He normall stopped for a drink or eight at one of the seedier bars – the sort of place where anybody could drink and nobody would bat an eyelid if Elvis walked in – but today he just wasn't in the mood. Shivering in the sudden cold snap that had taken over the city, he stuck his hands in his pockets and walked quickly through the maze of alleyways. His apartment was in one of the blocks the Costas had influence over – simply for safety, as the actually quality of the place was not high, and so it just made great good snse to keep the money from his loan sharking activities close by. Still, he couldn't help but feel much less at home.

His gut was partly. Somebody was indeed after him, but it wasn't the Russians.

"C'mere, lad, what's the hurry you're in?" came the soft Irish brogue, accompanied by the unmistakable force of a gun barrel being pushed into his back. Eric considered going for the gun in his breast pocket, or running, but it would be a bad idea either way. He wasn't even close to being competent with the gun and he'd been caught in a dead end. Worse yet, the footfalls suggested there was more than one man behind him.

"Take your hands out of your pockets. Slowly," ordered the man with the gun, sounding a lot less pleasant than his colleague. Eric's only serious option was to comply; if he was in luck, they'd only be after his money and not his life.

"You've made yourself quite a little cottage industry, haven't you?" It was just as he'd been afraid of – the men cornering him were part of the Irish Mafia. He recognised the man doing the talking from Skuzzy's, his usual watering hole, but his identical partners he knew only by reputation. They were the McQuaid brothers, notorious throughout the New York underworld for their simple brutality. The legend was that if they had a contract, they had the courtesy to give you a warning beforehand so you could kill yourself painlessly; resistance had become futile after the story of Eddie O'Hare got around. O'Hare had been turned from the "Fighting Irish" by the Yardies through promises of ready cash; the man himself wasn't the sharpest knife in the box by a long way, and his newfound wealth led his former paymasters to the inescapable conclusion that O'Hare was the man who'd been tipping off the Yardies.

His body had shown up in nine different places…and in five different states.

"I like to think so," returned Eric, trying to keep up his cool façade. "And you are?"

The suited man shrugged carelessly. "My man's not important. And I guess you already know my associates."

Eric cast a glance to both brothers. Danny's face was plastered with a silly grin, while Adam was staring vacantly into the distance; brutal and violent as they were, neither man had much in the way of smarts. It was usually believed that when they were the womb together, the two of them had to split one brain between them. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"Our men on the street point to you as being the Costas' pet shark. We're not supposed to kill you, just provide a friendly warning to your paymasters that…well, the usual state of affairs is that such monetary matters lie in our hands."

"Funny," interrupted Eric, gradually backing away. "I've never found that to be true. In fact, I've been reporting some very good numbers to my friends. I seem to be the favoured choice."

"Indeed," returned the man, sliding the gun back into his hip holster. "Leprechaun gold always disappears. But you know as well as I that we didn't track you down to discuss economics, Mr. Donahue. We're here to make you see sense. Daniel, if you'd be so kind." Danny snapped out of his trance at the mention of his name, still smiling vacantly, and lurched forwards; Eric wasn't expecting such speed from the big man, and could do little to resist as Danny hooked him into a painful full-nelson.

"Ow," he said, unnecessarily. Adam, picking up on the thread, stepped forward as he pulled on a pair of leather driving gloves.

"Now, Mr. Donahue," said the man, biting a loose thread of skin from his finger. "We're going to play a little game. It doesn't have a name yet, but let's see what we come up with. In this game, Adam is going to show off the amateur boxing skills that he brags about so often until you give us something to work with."

"Work wi-" was as far as Eric got before Adam drove his fist into Eric's stomach. The suited man smiled benignly.

"Simple. What I want to know is simply where and when you are next scheduled to meet your boss. Your Mr. Costa." Eric's head snapped back as Adam's jab flicked out effortlessly and cracked into his nose. "We know we're supposed to meet him soon – once a month to deliver the money – and we want to know where."

"How do you know all this?" cried Eric in pain. Although Adam barely noticed, his punches were starting to slow down.

"It's my job to know this. Are you going to tell us, or does Adam have to continue?"

One of Eric's teeth had broken from a particularly hard hit, and he spat out blood onto the ground. "Fuck you! I won't tell you anything!" In another person, such an act might be considered noble, but those who knew Eric would know that this was little more than self-preservation. He knew perfectly well that if he spilled, the Costas would kill him, and as nasty a reputation as the McQuaids had, he'd seen the Blood Eagle in action. The suited man sighed with what almost passed as regret, unbuckling the holster again.

"Fine."

Behind them, Danny was feeling the same effects as his twin – his arms were growing heavy, but much heavier much faster than usual. Eric was slight, and it had taken little effort to keep him still, but now it felt like he was trying to lift a car. "What's going on?" he blurted out in surprise, just as Adam dropped to his knees. The suited man looked at his two charges in confusion, but it took him a couple of moments more before he connected the dots – he physically couldn't lift the pistol.

"What are you doing? How's this happening?" yelled Danny, now obviously scared. Adam tried to reply, only to find he couldn't even open his mouth. Slowly, all three began to crumple to the ground, leaving Eric standing among them in shock. Not about to look this gift horse in the mouth, he bolted, leaving behind only three mewling men, powerless under the force of gravity.

---

"Sein ist die Hand, die verletzt."

One candle flickered into life.

"Meine ist die Hand, die heilt."

A second candle joined it aflame.

"Sie bauen auf das Rot…"

A third.

"…und das Schwarze erscheint."

A fourth.

"Und so fangt es an."


End file.
